Prescience
by kickstergal
Summary: She plays with her hair now, when she knows that he's looking at her, something he finds infinitely delightful and which she would stop immediately if she knew he found it infinitely delightful.
1. Chapter 1

She steps out into the night, and watches the sky.

There is something about him, lately. The current that lies under his skin has begun to hum against her as she fits herself along his spine each night.

She presses her cheek to his back, holds him close, and feels an electric pulse that is constant, steady with purpose. Something has begun to call his name.

The stars wink slyly at her, far away from the safety of her porch. They seem harmless, shining bright, the only light in the sky as the new moon hides. The scent of the night-blooming Gladiolus, planted last year in the only concession to a garden she will allow herself to have, is a momentary distraction from her thoughts, and the air is so cool against her skin she has to pull on her nightgown, snagged on the way out.

She glances through the window at the man sleeping in her bed, then up at the sky, silently acknowledging that it isn't the cold that is making her shiver. She knows, better than most, that the safety she feels is false. She knows, better than most, that the stars are not harmless.

Something is coming.

She can't put a name to it, cannot even begin to fathom a hypothesis as to its form, but she knows that it is there, and she is reaching the end of her ability to pretend it doesn't exist. She has had extensive practice at this and has long since reached the conclusion that her own uneasiness is usually better proof than any of the monsters that she has seen come crawling out from under the bed.

Something is coming, and her own flat acknowledgement of it helps her to reconcile herself to the coming future.

They haven't talked about it. She questions him, in her own way, holding his gaze, searching it, when she kisses him goodbye each morning. Raising her brow, just a little, when he tells her about his day and the feel of his words are too-quick, glossed over and lacking his usual gravitas.

He answers her, in his own way, the ghost of a sheepish grin crossing his features, the barest hint of a shrug allaying and acknowledging her fears at the same time.

They won't talk about it. They will sidestep and prevaricate and talk in circles until they are standing on the edge of whatever rabbit hole fate will place in front of them to step through. And then he will grab her hand and she will grab his, and they won't pretend that either one of them was planning to do anything else.

The night suddenly feels too dark, the scent of the flowers too cloying, her nightgown close and suffocating. She tears her gaze away from the sky, feeling hunted and small, the rabbit to a predator she can't name but can feel watching her, watching them.

She doesn't know if she can do this again.

She jumps at the feel of a hand on the nape of her neck.

She rears up, stiff and cold, momentarily panicked before she recognises the feel of the space the man sitting beside her takes up. She's been sitting curled over for some time, hunched over staring at nothing while the stars spun above her and brought the dawn.

"Scully, you're going to catch a cold if you keep gardening at night." He shifts to look into her face, worry clouding his gaze, his tentative opening line asking her if she wants to continue to pretend the knowledge they're both carrying isn't real.

She looks up at the lightening sky, and the pure relief that another day has come where they are sitting together and she can touch him makes her catch her breath. It also makes her stiffen her spine and keep from reaching for him, because even after all this time habit is hard to break.

"I never know if I can do this again." She directs her comment to the sky, but he stays silent, challenging her. The quiet frays at her nerves, puts fire and courage back into her heart, and she turns to glare at him.

That's when he takes her hand, searching her gaze. "Until you do." She hears the question, the uncertainty and fear underneath the flippancy, and she squeezes, giving him the ghost of a smile.

"Until I do." She agrees.

**A/N: Woohoo – New X-Files! Thank you for reading XD**


	2. Chapter 2

He watches her, as she goes about her day.

It no longer feels furtive, something glancing and rare. It feels good, to know he is able to look at her without the fear that she will read him and know his thoughts winding serpentine though the moment.

The difference is now he knows that she will read him and he is no longer afraid of what that means for them both. The difference is now the moment has no taint to it.

She plays with her hair now, when she knows that he's looking at her, something he finds infinitely delightful and which she would stop immediately if she knew he found it infinitely delightful. Whether she's lost in a book or in her garden or some documentary on TV there's always a moment when she'll go still; a beat where her attention shifts, an instant where everything slows and he can practically hear her pulse keeping time with his. And then everything will resume its usual rhythm, except she'll pull a strand of hair over her shoulder and start winding it around her finger.

He can't describe the immeasurable satisfaction it gives him, this gift of her awareness. It means everything to know, intrinsically, that she sees him. Especially now that the freedom to simply look at her may be collateral damage in a game he can't yet put a name to.

There is something coming.

The sixth sense that has somehow become linked to the other five is humming under his skin, pulling at him. He is waking in the night more often now. The only thing that stops the panic is her breathing, and her sleepy hand rubbing his back, her usual, semi-conscious response to his nightmares.

He's afraid, but there is also rage, and helplessness, and a sense of inevitability, of resignation. This is the pattern of their life together and he supposes he should be grateful that they've had this long an intermission.

She knows it, too. She's distancing her herself from him and reaching towards him at the same time in her own unique Scully way. She likes to pretend he doesn't see her vulnerabilities and he pretends he doesn't, until they both drop the act and stop following the scripts they started writing the moment they met.

"Mulder?" She has a book half open beside her on the couch, and he realises he's been sitting at his desk staring into nothing.

"Problem, Scully?" He immediately regrets his laconic defensiveness.

"Why would there be a problem, Mulder? You'd think by this time I know whether you staring into space means trouble or simply that you're feeling pensive." There's a certain bite to her tone that has him wincing, even as she picks up her book again and proceeds to ignore him.

He swings out of his chair and crouches in front of her, waiting in silence until her brow furrows and she looks over the top of her book at him. He blinks solemnly at her. "So, you're saying there's a scale."

She looks seriously back at him. "Yes. It's quite similar to the Richter."

"As opposed to the Kinsey?" He winks at her and is rewarded as her lips twitch.

"I hardly think staring into space is similar to the Kinsey scale." She blinks once at him and then returns to her book.

He puts a finger at the top of her book and pulls it away from her face. "Depends what I was thinking about, don't you think?"

She smirks. "I'll go you two to one it wasn't sex." Something must have shown in his face as her smile fades. "What, Mulder?"

He sighs, and lets her pull him up to sit beside her. "I don't know." He has his suspicions, but he won't break the fragile peace they exist within until he's damn sure he can't stem whatever tide is coming.

She regards him silently, making one of the impenetrable internal decisions she's so good at. "Then how about I sit beside you until you do?"

He nods gratefully, waits until she settles against him and picks up her book again. Then he begins to study the crown of her head, the different colours in the strands of hair she has started weaving through her fingers.

Every time he leaves her he does this. He stockpiles moments to keep within himself, memories to conjure her to him in his darkest, loneliest moments.

He won't share this with her. They have gone through too much together for them not to face head on whatever is headed their way.

And they will.

And the fear eating at him makes him keep her close in any way he can.

**A/N Thank you for reading!**


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